


Noonvale

by LadySigyn214



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Noonvale, saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySigyn214/pseuds/LadySigyn214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taryn the mousemaid has a thirst for adventure - and an undisguised adoration for the aging hero of Redwall Abbey, Martin the Warrior. She wants to know everything about him; but the Warrior has secrets that not even his old friend Gonff can pry out of him. But when mysterious dreams reveal a dangerous new threat in the far north, things must be spoken of that have too long remained silent. Taryn and her friends follow the aging Warrior as he sets out on one final quest: to return to Noonvale and face the loss that has tormented him for so many seasons.</p>
<p>Set after the events of Legend of Luke. Italicized text is largely taken from Martin the Warrior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noonvale

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is my way of paying tribute to the man who I will always say taught me how to write - to paint pictures with my words, as he always told us Readers Club members to do. Brian Jacques molded my childhood. Mossflower is my hiding place. Before there was Middle Earth (for me), before I found Narnia, before my train ride to Hogwarts... there was Redwall. And for that, I will be eternally grateful to that old man across the ocean who, with every book I opened, sat me on his knee like a grandfather and fed me sweet visions the like of which I will never read again. To you, Brian. With love.
> 
> This story is also for my real grandfather, who moved on to be with Christ in January of 2015. His favorite old Appalachian song to sing to me was "Froggy Went A-Courtin'," which is sort of the rural grandchild of the old English ballad, "The Moste Strange Weddingge of Frogge and Mouse." It is this old ballad which I used as the basis for the song in the first chapter. I can still hear my grandfather's voice singing the Appalachian version to me on his porch. 
> 
> This story is about learning how to say goodbye. And it is so much easier for my characters to do that than it is for me.

The pain was intense, and the young fox cried out with all the strength his scorched lungs could muster.  He flailed his paws, instinctively batting away the old healer’s attempts to touch him.  Lotho called for her two assistants; this young one would have to be restrained if she was going to treat his wounds.

            “Carefully now, Fornax,” the old vixen admonished, twitching her thick rust-colored tail anxiously at the lighter furred fox at the corner of the stretcher.  “Mind his head, Syrrus.  And watch you don’t pull at that skin on his arm.  We’ll be lucky if he keeps most of it, as it is.”  The dark gray fox nodded his reply and held the patient’s shoulders firmly.  Lotho began selecting herbs from the rack on the nearest wall of the cave.  Outside, a cold north wind blew in off the sea, putting a briny edge to the scent of the night air and scattering the ashes of the ship that had delivered the mangled young fox into Lotho’s paws.  Bits of burnt sailcloth floated by the cave mouth like gray snow.  The charred hull lay below them on the tide line, concealing within it the blackened bodies of two adult foxes and one pup – this one’s parents and sibling, no doubt.  And he was likely to join them in Dark Forest if his wounds had anything to say about it.  His long, thick tail was singed badly; the fur on many parts of his body was simply gone; a piece of his left ear would have to be removed.  But it was the face that shocked her.  Upon a close examination, Lotho could see that the young one’s grimace was only partly from his pain; heat, strain, and nerve damage had drawn the muscles and tendons in his cheeks up towards his ears, displaying his fangs, gums, and lolling tongue, and twisting his handsome face into a grotesque snarl.  The old healer turned back to her medicinal stores; she would have to ease his pain, and then once he had calmed down, she could apply the poultices and compresses.  Her eyes narrowed.

            “Oh, I’m out of dock again,” she murmured.  “Vella!”  In response to the call, the healer’s daughter slipped out of a corner into the lantern light, glancing nervously at the groaning form on the stretcher.  Lotho took hold of her daughter’s shoulders.  “Vella, child.  Run to our sleeping cave and bring me my bag.  I should have plenty of dock leaves in it.”

            “Yes, Mother,” the young vixen simpered, eyeing the screaming patient again.  “Will he live, Mother?”

            “It’s hard to say, child.  We’ll do what we can, poor creature.  Now run along, I need that dock.  And put on your cloak!”  As her daughter scampered out of the cave, Lotho returned her full attention to the burned remnant of the fox on the stretcher before her.  Live, he might, but if he survived the burns, he would be irreparably scarred.  He might perhaps have a wheeze in his breathing, if the sounds his lungs made now were any indication.  The fur might grow back in some places, but she didn’t know if his facial muscles would ever work properly again.  He was a fighter, though, she had to give him that.  Without that inner fight, he would never have survived the initial fire.  She moved toward him with a pawful of herbs, but he turned his head sharply and snapped at her.  The healer held back a growl.

            “Stoppit, young one!” she spat.  “I can help you, but you must let me!  Now stop all this struggling!  Fornax, get me some water.  Hold him still, Syrrus.”  With a bit more force, the vixen began applying the herbs to his wounded face.  The healer worked far into the night, pulling the young fox back from Dark Forest’s gates, inch by agonizing inch.

 

 

A season passed on the North Coast.  The young fox slowly found his place among Lotho’s band, learning anything anybeast would teach him.  He never spoke of the family he had lost, or of the voyage that had nearly taken his life.  He would only speak freely to the old healer’s daughter, Vella; with all others, he only answered when addressed, accompanied by an odd cackle through his thick bandages.  Mid-spring saw his tail recover fully.  Most of his fur returned, longer in some places, thin and patchy in others.  His voice was largely unaffected, although there was a sharp wheeze when he laughed.  Finally, the time came to remove the last of the bandages from his face.  Lotho carefully cut them away from his cheeks, handing him a triangular shard of glass for a mirror.  He looked.  Two bright red scars, bold against his light fur, twisted and curved their way up to point at his ears; he licked at his long, sharp fangs and attempted a bitter sneer.  But that was no use – his face was frozen into an unsettling and permanent grin.

* * *

 

 

 

  

**Book One:  A Warrior’s Dreams**

 

 

** 1 **

                             

There.  In the compound.  Run.  Kill the TYRANT!

_Lying low, the Tyrant peered through the ash-blackened stakes of the compound to the base of the rear wall.  Moles, squirrels and mice were climbing out of a sizeable tunnel….  Badrang saw his one chance of escape._

            _“_ _BADRAAAANG, I am HERE!”  The Tyrant heard the challenge over the mêlée of battle…. He saw Martin dashing along the walltop.  It was now or never._

Now or never.  Now or never!  WAIT…. No, don’t do it!  You can’t…

_Badrang broke cover and ran… slashing viciously with his sword at anybeast who barred his way._

            No, no, no… stop, I’ll... I’m coming!  Wait!

_A mousemaid threw herself on him, battering at his face with a pebble loaded in her sling.  Once, twice, thrice she struck.  Taken aback by the ferocity of the attack, Badrang tasted blood from a mouthwound.  The loaded sling caught him hard in his left eye…. He –_

            No!

_He grabbed –_

            No, not…. No, NO!

_He grabbed the mousemaid.  Lifting her easily, he flung her savagely from him.  Rose’s head struck the wall heavily, and she slid down like a broken doll._

            NOOOOOOOOO!!

Martin awoke in a cold sweat.  Drawing a shaky breath, he stared down at his trembling paws.  He tried to exhale; it came out as a choking cough.  The Warrior let out a strangled sob and snatched up his pillow, burying his graying face deep into its soft downy mass, clenching it in his arthritic paws like a babe holding a stuffed toy, crying softly as he gently rocked it to and fro.  The old familiar dream had left him lashing himself with the old familiar accusations.  If only he had been faster.  If only he had made her stay behind.  If only…. 

“Yurr, zurr Marthen?  Do ee be awake?”  The old mouse jumped at the unexpected voice, then relaxed a bit as he heard the tiny digging claw tapping at his door.

“Yes, Viggo.  I’m awake,” he answered, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt.  The molebabe Viggo cleared his throat importantly and pressed his mouth closer to the doorjamb.

“Zurr Gonffen sent oi t’see iffen you’m be a-comin’ daown furr brekkist afore we go.”  Martin nodded to himself; that was right, he had forgotten.  He had promised his old friend Gonff that he would help look after the Dibbuns on their walk through Mossflower Wood this morning.  They would be gathering flowers for the table arrangements at tonight’s feast, celebrating Abbot Jerome’s tenth season as Father of Redwall Abbey.  The Warrior mouse put his pillow down and smiled weakly.

“Thank you, Viggo.  Tell him I’ll be right down.”  The pitter-patter of little footpaws along the corridor told him that his message would be delivered promptly… provided the Dibbun didn’t encounter any sweets along the way.  Martin sighed and swung his paws off the bed, flinching at the sudden coolness of the sandstone floor.  His rheumatism was plaguing him this morning, as it always would after a night of unpleasant dreaming.  The dreams were always of his youth, and he supposed that the fresh aches were his body’s way of reminding him that those days were long gone. Everybeast aged, he often reminded himself; but Martin sometimes felt as though he had lost more of himself than any.  Once he had walked long miles without tiring, fought long battles in heavy armor, swung his great sword with deadly force and effortless grace.  On mornings like this one, however, he occasionally felt that he wouldn’t be able to lift the great blade even if he tried. 

Still, he reflected, the seasons had been kinder to him than to some; so many of Redwall Abbey’s founding generation had already gone to their well-deserved rest.  Abbess Germaine had passed on her mantle of authority to the young Brother Jerome ten seasons ago, and they had laid her to rest two seasons later, beneath the Abbey she had loved so well.  Her old companion Beau the hare had joined her the next spring.  Lady Amber, Redwall’s resident Squirrelqueen, had passed on the previous autumn.  One death had been especially difficult for Martin; Dinny Foremole, who had accompanied the Warrior and Gonff the Mousethief on their quest to Salamandastron, who had journeyed with them to Martin’s homeland on the North Coast, and who had spent many nights with Martin by the fire in Cavern Hole over good October Ale, had been taken by a fever that had swept through the Abbey last winter.  Martin and Gonff had stayed by their friend’s grave for an hour after the ceremony had ended, reminiscing and generally feeling sorry for themselves, retelling all the old stories of seasons past.

As he dressed, the Warrior mouse tried to remember just how long it had been. It seemed the seasons had come and gone so quickly since that far away winter when he had arrived in Mossflower Country, with his father’s sword on his back and a lifetime of painful memories on his shoulders.  A few of those memories had been dashed from his head during the battle against Tsarmina, the cruel wildcat queen from whose claws he had helped to free his woodland friends.  Other recollections had been slowly erased by the passage of time.  But some, as his dreams had never failed to remind him, were there to stay.  Martin shivered in spite of the thick habit he had donned, and he shuffled slowly over to the window of his chamber, threw back the drapes, and opened it.  The warm spring sunshine flooded in, warming his face as a soft breeze stirred his whiskers.  Floating up from the Abbey grounds, he heard the sounds of laughter, lively conversations, the squeals of Dibbuns chasing and playing and being reprimanded by the ancient badger mother Bella for straying too close to the pond.  Further out, beyond the soaring red sandstone walls for which the Abbey was named, the tree tops of Mossflower Wood swayed easily in tiny currents of swirling air, green and shimmering, and speaking in the playful whisper that Martin had always loved to hear.  The Warrior mouse breathed in deeply, then let out a small sigh.  The breeze that morning was heavy with the scent of wild roses.

* * *

 

 

Taryn gazed up at the brilliant morning sky through the terrace of branches under which she sat.  The plum tree had bloomed early, and the bold, clear azure of the heavens peeped down at her through a tracery of vibrant green leaves and tiny white blossoms, a few of which drifted down with each breeze to land on the pages of the open book that lay in her lap.  The mousemaid picked the volume up and shook it, dumping the pile of snowy petals out onto her apron and skirt.  The book was ancient; it had belonged to her grandmother, she knew, and before that had spent seasons collecting dust on the shelves of countless other ancestors.  Taryn ran a paw over the scrolling gold lettering indented into the sea-green cover; it read _The Perilous Homeward Journey of Robwyn the Valiant_.  The epic poem had always been her favorite book.  The verses told the story of the young mouse Robwyn, shipwrecked far from home and kin, battling vermin, storms, and fate to finally return to his home and true love.  That was her favorite part – Taryn had always secretly longed to be the ever-enduring object of some brave adventurer’s affections.  She opened the book to the first stanza:

 

            “My song speaks the memory

            Of the Wanderer most brave

            Battered by tempests at sea;

            Of the lands that he traveled

            ‘Cross hill, dune, and wave – “

 

Taryn looked up as a pair of oddly-shaped shadows fell across the page.  The taller of the two wobbled slightly as its owner, a young squirrelmaid, bounced up arm in arm with the owner of the second shadow, a short stout hedgehog.  The squirrel twitched her long tail in amusement.

            “Told you where she’d be, didn’t I, Wyatt?  Wandered off to the orchard to read again.”  Wyatt eased his plump form onto the ground beside Taryn, a slow grin spreading across his face.

            “O’ course, Jerill.  Did I ever suggest she’d be elsewhere?”  The young hedgehog reached up to remove a leaf that had skewered itself on his headspikes.  “Great seasons, Taryn, why can’t you ever wander off to the kitchens to read?  At least then I’d be able to snatch a bit o’ pie or puddin’ or summat to reward meself for findin’ you.”  Taryn giggled and put the leaf back on his spike, choosing another and sticking it on the opposite side.

            “There, now you have a matching set!”  She aimed a smile at Jerill, who flopped down to sit in front of them, and the three friends shared a hearty laugh, of the kind one only hears from happy, youthful creatures in the first days of spring.  Taryn had spent her mornings like this almost as far back as she could remember – reading after breakfast in the orchard, being chased down by Jerill and Wyatt, laughing and talking under the plum tree, and then being dragged off on some escapade of Jerill’s, which usually ended with Wyatt covered in dirt, soaking wet, stuck in some crevice, or occasionally all three.  The hedgehog had always borne the brunt of his friends’ schemes, but he did so with good grace; there was always some kind of dessert afterwards for compensation.  Wyatt had been Taryn’s best friend since the day she had arrived at the Abbey, little more than an infant, carried there by her father after their settlement in the north of Mossflower had been destroyed by a rockslide.  He had been injured far worse than he would admit, and the good mice in the Abbey infirmary had only been able to do so much.  It was Wyatt who had helped the young mousemaid through her first winter without him.  Taryn gazed at him fondly as their laughter died down, wondering how she would ever have gotten on without him.

            “So,” began Jerill, taking Taryn’s book and flipping the pages idly as she spoke.  “Don’t suppose you’re goin’ out flower picking this mornin’, are you?”  Taryn joined Wyatt in a chuckle before answering. 

            “Follow the Dibbuns all over Mossflower, wiping noses, keeping little paws out of the mud?  No thank you.”  The mousemaid plucked her book out of Jerill’s paws with a wry smile, and the squirrel returned the grin, twitching her brush playfully.

            “ _Martin_ will be going,” she said with a teasing wink.  Wyatt gave her a conspiratorial glance, and they both collapsed into laughter as Taryn blushed.  It was no secret that Taryn’s affections for Martin the Warrior were slightly more than those of the average Abbey dweller.  True, the Warrior mouse was old enough to have been her grandsire, but he was still quite handsome for one of his seasons, and he was such a terribly romantic figure!  All those battles he must have fought in his day, all the vermin he must have dispatched, the perils he must have faced, with his beautiful and deadly sword at his side – Taryn had grown up seeing Martin not as Redwall’s aging former champion, but as the hero of one of her epics, and he still seemed larger than life in her estimation.  She could feel her cheeks flushing, and she swatted at Jerill’s paw with her book.

            “Shhh, Jerill!” She put a paw to her lips and then reached up to cover her face.  Grinning, Wyatt removed the two leaves from his head spikes and dropped them gingerly between Taryn’s ears. 

            “That’s right, Jerill,” the hedgehog quipped.  “We’ve got to keep it quiet, she’s not ready to confess her love yet!”

            “Ooh, you… hush!  Shhh!”  Taryn made a frantic move to cover Wyatt’s mouth.  He chuckled and dodged out of her reach, and the mousemaid lost her balance; she tipped over and landed nose tip first in the grass.  Wyatt’s spikes rustled as he laughed uproariously.  “Look out, Jerill, she’s gone into a swoon!”  Taryn spat clover leaves as she sat up slowly, trying not to laugh herself.

            “Thank you, Wyatt,” she began as she dusted off her apron, “but I have never swooned in my entire life, and I don’t intend to start now.”  Jerill scooted over to help the mousemaid straighten her skirt, her brush positively quivering with suppressed laughter.

            “So, are you goin’ on the walk, or not?”  Taryn sighed.  She knew Jerill and Wyatt wouldn’t go without her, and Dibbuns or no Dibbuns, it was such a beautiful morning.  And of course, there was Martin.  She tucked the book into her apron pocket and crossed her arms resignedly.

            “Oh, all right, all right.  Flower picking it is.”

            “Great!  Race you to the gatehouse?”  Taryn opened her mouth to reply, but Jerill had already scampered halfway across the Abbey grounds, tail bobbing and waving behind her.

            “Off like a shot, and leavin’ you to help ole slowpoke along, as usual,” Wyatt grunted as Taryn extended a paw to help him up.  “Well, we’d best catch ‘er, or she’ll have the whole forest picked clean o’ flowers afore the Dibbuns get out the gate.”

* * *

 

  

A few puffy white clouds were beginning to drift in from the northeast as the little band of Redwallers left the path and entered Mossflower Wood.  Gonff the Mousethief skipped with as much agility as his old bones could manage, watching his footpaws shuffle along the mossy path.  The forest floor was dappled and rippling with sunlight, a dark jade color in the shadows crisscrossed by oscillating patterns of glowing emerald.  All around him, Dibbuns wove in and out of patches of gold, lavender, and fuchsia blossoms, filling tiny wicker baskets with them, giggling and tussling playfully.  Gonff smiled and pulled a flute from the belt of his tunic, twiddling a few notes out of habit.  Their sequence reminded him of something, an old tune from seasons past, and he half sung, half mumbled the verse.

            “Hm-hmm, hm-hmm-mm hmm… Sala-manda-stron.”  He rounded the corner where the path curved around a huge oak and found Martin leaning against the mossy trunk, a pack of Dibbuns and youngbeasts gathered around him.  Gonff played the phrase again and nudged the Warrior, grinning.  “Remember that one, matey?  Composed it for our quest to Salamandastron.”

            “Aye, and I thought you’d never hush singing it.”  Martin folded his paws across his chest and leaned toward Taryn and her pals conspiratorially.  “All the way out to the south coast, and every time something interesting happened, he wrote a new verse.”  He winked, and Taryn blushed.  “I heard that song in my sleep for two seasons,” the old mouse grumbled playfully as Gonff feigned indignation.

            “Well, maybe that’s cos it was such a good tune!” the Mousethief retorted, punctuating it with a quick tweet of his flute.  Martin chuckled under his breath, and the crowd of youngsters giggled; Gonff was a constant source of amusement.

            “Mithter Gonff, sir?”  The Mousethief glanced down at the baby mouse tugging at his tunic hem.

            “Ah, Kaid!  Just the mouse I wanted to see today.  What can I do for you, young sir?”  Kaid twisted the corner of the blanket he carried, staring up at Gonff with wide eyes.

            “C’n you sing da Frog an’ Mouse song?”  There was a chorus of agreement from the other Dibbuns, and from Taryn and her friends.  Gonff grinned and surveyed his audience.

            “Oh, I dunno, I might need some help.” Every Dibbun raised a paw frantically, and the old mouse laughed.  “All right, all right.  Taryn, would you sing the part of Martha Mouse, please?”

            “Oh, anything for you, Mister Gonff,” she replied with a wink and a curtsy, standing up and straightening her apron.  Gonff turned to Martin.

            “Still remember the Frog’s lines, matey?”

            “Unfortunately,” the Warrior Mouse quipped, puffing out his chest in preparation to play his role.  The Mousethief turned back to the Dibbuns.

            “And everybeast remember to sing on the ‘harum scarum’ bits, all right?” 

            “All right!” the babes answered in unison – that was their favorite part.  With one more look around at the audience, Gonff played the refrain and promptly burst into song as the Dibbuns clapped and stomped out the rhythm.

 

            “Oh, Frederick Frog lived by a well,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

             And Martha Mouse lived on a hill,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

             This frog he would a-courting ride,

             With sword and buckler at his side,

                  O, harum scarum diddle dum darum,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

 

             He hopped right up to Mouse’s hall,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

             And there most tenderly did call,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!”

 

 Gonff nodded to Martin, who eased himself down onto his knee by the rock on which Taryn was perched and sang in his gruffest voice:

 

            “Oh, Mistress Mouse, are you at home?

             And if you are, then please come down!”

 

 Here Gonff nodded to the Dibbuns again, who promptly replied with the last lines of the verse.

 

                 “O, harum scarum diddle dum darum,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!”

 

 As the giggles died down, Taryn curtsied dramatically and sang her part in a clear, sweet voice.

 

            “My Uncle Rat is not at home,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

             I dare not for my life come down,

                  Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!”

 

 Gonff, making his scariest and ugliest face, jumped in to finish the verse.

 

             “Then Uncle Rat, he soon comes home,

              Says, ‘Who’s been here since I’ve been gone?’

                   O, harum scarum diddle dum darum,

                   Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!” 

  

 In mock alarm, Taryn turned on her rock and curtsied to her “Uncle Rat,” gesturing to the frog Martin with one paw.

 

              “Here’s a fine young gentleman,

                    Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

               Who swears he’ll have me if he can,

                    Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!”

 

 Again, it was Gonff’s turn to finish the verse.

 

              “Then Uncle Rat gave his consent,

               And made a handsome settlement,

                    O, harum scarum diddle dum darum,

                    Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!”

 

 The Dibbuns all stood to their feet – this was the verse that everyone got to sing:

 

              “And for their wedding feast were made,

                    Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

               Puddings, scones, and marmalade,

                    Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!

               Turnip ‘n’ tater ‘n’ beetroot pie,

               O, would that at that feast were I!

                    O, harum scarum diddle dum darum,

                    Whoopsy, diddly dandy dee!”

 

 As Gonff played the refrain again, Taryn hopped down off the rock and curtsied to Martin, who bowed stiffly in reply and then offered her his paw; they spun around as lightly as the older mouse could manage until the notes from Gonff’s flute tapered off.  Taryn let her momentum carry her a few feet before dropping onto a soft patch of moss.  She lay there a moment, waiting for her giggles to subside as Martin and Gonff eased themselves down onto the rock beside her.  The Mousethief passed his flute to Wyatt, who began to play softly and clumsily as Gonff caught his breath.

            “Whew, that one gets harder every season, matey!”  He smiled and patted his stomach, which had grown considerably plumper with age.  “Hard to inflate the old lungs with all this extra on top of ‘em!”  Martin shoved his friend playfully.

            “Gonff, you old windbag, you’ve never had trouble pushing around that hot air in your whole life.  You were singing when I met you.”

            “An’ he hasn’t stopped since, I’d imagine,” Wyatt mumbled around the mouthpiece of the flute. 

            “I can take that back, you know,” Gonff retorted as the others laughed.  Taryn sat up on her elbow and looked up at Martin.

            “How did you two meet?”  Martin’s whiskers twitched and his eyes took on a dreamy look as he remembered.

            _Martin ran to the door but was immediately bowled over by another figure, which shot through the doorway straight in on top of him….  He moved gingerly, easing aside the body….  It giggled.  He pulled his cellmate into the shaft of sunlight where he could view him more clearly._

_Gonff winked broadly at him, played a short jig on his reed flute, then began singing,_

_I knew a mouse in prison here,_

_More than a hundred years…._

Gonff saw the far-off glaze in his friend’s eyes and told the story himself.

            “Oh, we were in prison together years ago.  Back when Mossflower was ruled by the wildcats.  You remember – Tsarmina, Castle Kotir, all that?”  Jerill lay down and pulled her tail over her eyes.

“Oh, not a history lesson.  We get enough of this from Brother Melvin an’ all his dusty old scrolls.”  Gonff chuckled.

            “Well there’s not much more to it.  I was arrested for… liberating some food from the castle kitchens – “

            “There’s a surprise!” Wyatt mumbled again; Gonff winked and continued.

            “…and Martin was brought in for carrying a weapon on the cats’ territory.”

            “The Great Sword?” Taryn asked.  This seemed to bring Martin out of his reverie, and he answered her himself.

            “Well, not quite.  The same hilt, though.  It was my father’s; Tsarmina took it and broke the blade when I was arrested.  Then Boar the Fighter forged the new blade when we got to Salamandastron.”  Taryn sat up fully, interested to finally hear one of the old tales from the Warrior himself.

            “What were you doing carrying it around the wildcats’ land in winter, anyway?  How did you get here, where’d you come from?”

            _I can never return….  I will travel alone.  South.  …One day maybe I will hang up this sword and be a creature of peace.  Until then, I must follow the way of the Warrior; it is in my blood.  …I will never mention….  Nobeast will know from where I came._

            Martin passed a paw over his face.  When he looked up, he spoke mechanically, as if repeating an oft-rehearsed catechism.  “I guarded my father’s cave against searats while he was away.  When I felt that he would not return I began my wanderings.”  There was an awkward silence, broken only by Wyatt’s stumbling notes on Gonff’s flute.  Jerill twisted the loose fur at the end of her tail, and Taryn bit her lip; she hadn’t meant to ask the wrong question, but it seemed she had done just that.  Gonff watched his friend’s face nervously.  Martin’s gaze roamed around, then suddenly snapped into focus, staring at Wyatt.

            “That song….”  Wyatt stopped playing and looked up.

            “What song?  I was only playin’ whatever came to me, no real tune.”

            “That song….  It was… I thought….”  Martin shook his head.  “It just reminded me of something, I suppose.”

            _See the roving river run_

_Over hill and dale_

_To a secret forest place,_

_O my heart……_

Martin sniffed and reached up to wipe a tear from his cheek; then another cold drop hit his paw.  Gonff pushed himself up off the rock as the first heavy raindrops began splattering themselves on the forest canopy above.  He touched his friend’s shoulder carefully.

            “Rain, matey.  Better get these Dibbuns back in the Abbey, eh?”

            “Mm?  Oh, yes,” Martin murmured, grasping Gonff’s paw and allowing the Thief to pull him upright.  “Can’t have them soaked and catching cold, now can we?”  As Gonff scurried about, rounding up the horde of Dibbuns and their flower baskets, Martin pulled his cloak out of the basket he had brought and threw it over his shoulders.  As Taryn and her friends got up, he held it open.  “Room for a few more under here,” he invited.  Jerill smiled and indicated the brush curled above her head; she always had a ready made hood.  Taryn and Wyatt accepted the offer gratefully, however, and the trio under the cloak began shuffling back up the path toward Redwall Abbey.  “I suppose this means the feast will be indoors tonight!” Martin remarked as the first low rumble of thunder sounded off toward the horizon.


End file.
